Roughly six years or so ago, Coach and I made the decision (aided somewhat by some medical opinions we valued, and by the fact that my body was very adamantly and aggressively recommending a particular course of action) to ensure that we could have no more children. Well, we ensured that he and I together could have no more, and that I could have no more with another man, should that be a chosen route in the future. Coach, being the forward thinking man that he is, left himself the option for future children with another, less likely to be perfect for him, woman.
In plain speaking, that means that a little over 6 years ago, I had a hysterectomy. I was absolutely, positively 100% ok with that decision. After all, it wasn't like my body was giving me any real choice in the matter. (And since I'm not sure I really want to risk losing the three of you that still read my blog, I'll go into no further details of that other than to say that had I chosen to retain my silly little uterus, I would have begun a very painful journey to constant misery, followed up by probable non-existence in the event we ever got pregnant again. Really, it was a no-brainer choice on my part.) Oh sure, when I was younger and in the earlier years of our marriage, I wanted at least 3 kids. (Ok, really I grew up thinking I wanted six.) And in my heart of hearts I always kind of wanted a little girl for Coach to spoil, and for me to actually get to teach things to. You know, growing up kinds of things. But overall, stopping with the two boys was a good decision.
Coach had said from the very beginning that he only wanted two boys. He knew, just knew, that each of our pregnancies were boys. Having turned out that way, let me tell you that it gave him a fairly big head that I've had to poke with a pair of scissors to deflate occasionally. But he was happy having two boys, and claims no desire to have a daughter.
Until recently. When he made a comment in the grocery store that just about had him walking home that day.
We were walking down the family planning aisle, and he oh-so-casually mentions that he wishes I could get pregnant again. I'm busy thinking that I'd be ok with that, too, as that would have meant a botched surgery all those years ago; and a botched surgery would have meant I'd have a killer medical malpractice lawsuit that I could actually win! *sigh* Sadly, he followed his original comment up with the following statement:
I'd really like to have a daughter, you know?
I stopped right in the middle of the aisle and turned and looked at him. (Sometimes I genuinely believe that man lives ... lives, I tell you!... to burst my bubble. Repeatedly.) I'm relatively positive that I looked like one of those wall-mounted fish, just staring at him with my mouth wide open. All I could do was stand there.
And the fish look? Was wasted on him, since he never even looked at me, just kept moving on down the aisle. If I'd have had any canned goods in that cart, I think I might be a widow right about now.